


summertime sadness

by AceQueenKing



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Family Reunions, Forehead Kisses, Picnics, Pre-Canon, Summertime Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28330803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Hades goes to the family picnics for one reason and one reason only: to meet up with his most-missed wife.
Relationships: Hades/Persephone (Hadestown)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2020





	summertime sadness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aproclivity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aproclivity/gifts).



Hades has found there’s a rather funny thing about being the king of hell: he’s still expected to go to all of heaven’s big meetings.

Not _all_ the meetings, thankfully. His brothers tried and failed to hold him to that; he was the first one to step away from the Olympian titles and all the trappings (emphasis: _trap_ ) that came with it. Mr. Hades is not a fool; he had no more desire to be at Zeus’ call than he had to be at his own father's.

But, it must be said, there are alliances that must be upheld. He has no desire to fight about it, not anymore. Seen one war, seen them all, and he’s settled down now with a lot more to miss if his war doesn’t turn his way.

Which is, he has to admit, is part of why he has perfect attendance at this particular picnic. If the lesser part.

Picnics only happen in the summertime, when the vine ripens, and the wheat turns golden, and neither happens without his woman bringing it so.

And so he goes.

Because the thing is, when things blossom up top, with the wine and the vine, well, old man winter has a famine below. He is without his wife and his home, adrift for six months of joy above and misery below.

And so, he goes. Every year. Perfect attendance. He goes with the desperation of a sailor without a single drop of water left in his barrels.

“Brother,” his brother says, and claps him on the back; they have been in an alliance so long that he can’t even remember if Zeus really is his brother, or if they’ve only called one another such so long that the bonds of amity have become as strong as blood. “Looking for your springtime snack?”

“My bride,” he says and ignores the cackling that half of his “brother’s” entourage erupts into. Well aware there’s always been a betting pool on how long they’ll last. They’ve proven a lot of the estimates wrong. Their opinions don’t much matter, anyway.

He brushes past them, brushes past many people, brushes past thousands of boring perfect goddesses til he finds the imperfect one, who drinks like a fish and looks at him like he’s nothing better than curdled milk.

“Well,” she slurs; six sheets to the wind but still so far from his bed. Always did drink like a fish at these things; ain’t never been a fan. “Well, well, well.”

“Hello, darlin’.” He pets her hair and, seeing a little smile, leans in close. Gets rewarded with a kiss that could strip paint without the least bit of turpentine.

Someone—some third-string god or goddess that he’s never quite known the name of—laughs, and he is sure it is at them. He ignores it; she flinches, tosses a death glare at some naiad or dryad or whatever-the-hell-it is. “Let’s go find ourselves somewhere more private,” he says.

Sometimes, the best thing he can do is take her away from this mess. Every year, it seems like it weighs more on her, this summer-time sadness.

“No,” she says, sounding harsh. “We’ll stay.” She tosses off what’s left of her drink, a bright red glass, and drops it on the ground.

And then she kisses him.

Now the gods as a group are not much _approving_ of _public displays of courtship_ ; given the number of affairs, alliances, and dalliances that go through the upper courts, well, not showing who you like in public tends to be part and parcel of the upstairs politics. But his wife kisses him, kisses him with a passion that almost—almost—belies her taste for the liquor.

And let it not be said that Mr. Hades, so often the staidest member of his family, ain’t willin’ to put on a show if his wife wishes him to. He kisses her back, lets his hand slide down her side, and puts aside any doubts as to the nature of their relationship.

“Musta been a long summer for him,” one of the newer, worthless little gods says; he ignores it, feels his wife shudder. It has been a long summer.

“Missed you,” he whispers as they part, and watches a shadow cast on his wife’s cheek, but it’s gone before he can say much. She nuzzles her head in his shoulder, as she so often does, with the drink. He taps her head with his own.

“’S always the same,” she murmurs, and he does not know if she means the summers, or if she means the sadness, or if she means the unbearable family picnics. It does not matter. He presses his kiss to her nose and hums a little tune that once would have moved her to fly on down to the underworld.

Hasn’t worked lately though, no matter how much he hums it to himself in the too-big house with too many days spent all alone. Hums it loud, sings it so loud it rattles his own rafters, and yet: she does not hear.

And so instead, he tries to treasure the few hours that they’re together. He pulls back and looks at her: she looks back, her look half-plastered, then leans forward again.

“You wanna dance?” He asks; it is the only thing that reminds him of how they once were. Sometimes, she looks like she did, once, at the start of their affair: Happy.

She nods, gently lets him take her to the garish dance-floor that his “brother” has hooked up, with scatting fates and apollo’s eclectic jazzy din. Was a time in her life when she’d jump up and throw herself into a dance with him, with great passion.

Now she just sways in his arms, the drink having rendered her far too limber, almost floppy. Other, lesser gods giggle at her movements, and he does not like that, the idea of her being a joke. But when he turns her in his arms, and the light catches her chin just so, well, he can almost believe that she is the girl who he was in a garden once, long ago.

But her smile is more weary than kind.

He squeezes her a little harder, silent encouragement meant to help her hold the summer long.

But the woman in her arms just closes her eyes and leans forward, into the shadow of his arm. Maybe winter will be different; maybe winter she’ll feel better.

He tells himself this, vows to come a few hours early, take her away from the nasty family arguments, the oppressing sunshine.

It’s not meant for creatures such as them.


End file.
